I see my lips, intense red and puckering up to the mirror as I apply an extra coat for good luck. I see the empty seat at the Everyman Theatre, the one that Dan Finnigan should’ve sat in. I see Jack’s suit, his hand brushing my leg, the froth from his pint that sat on the tip of his beard that I didn’t have the heart to tell him about, the chips and curry sauce we ate for breakfast the morning after because it wasn’t morning, it was three in the afternoon – oh yeah, we’d stayed in bed until then.

I see the trains, going north, going south, meeting in the middle; the gin in a tin and packets of M&S crisps; always meeting by the Burger King.

I see the flights and the frogs, Patpong and ping-pong, a Ladyboy winking.

I see the key.

I see the school, the double doors, the desk, the interview, the pints and pizza after I got the job, and God – that was it – the night we’d joked about Vegas – that was it.

I see Jack pulling my socks off my feet when I’m watching Netflix, squashing them into a ball and trying to throw them into an empty mug, annoying the shit out of me every time he did it, and he did it a lot. I see him missing and knocking the mug – which wasn’t empty after all – onto the carpet.

I see his chest resting against mine, keeping me warm – sometimes too warm – and I’d have to wait until he fell asleep to unravel myself.

I see us brushing our teeth, elbowing each other until it became a strange little dance, bobbing and swaying in the small cabinet mirror.

I see his phone and him fixating at the footy scores.

I see us getting Belgian waffles in Covent Garden and both coming to the conclusion that they smell better than they taste.

I see us wake at four in the morning, gravitating into each other, making love that’s slow and sleepy.

I see us in a beer garden, laughing about the ridiculous names people call their kids these days and losing it when we imagine a baby named Barry.

I see Jack walk in on me having a moment, playing the Evita soundtrack and giving it my best Eva Perón out of the bedroom window when I thought I had the flat to myself, and his disgust at either my singing or my taste, or both, but I never asked.

I see us dancing, headbanging and slow dancing, whatever took our fancy, whilst swigging from a bottle of Prosecco, ’cause it was Friday and ’cause we could, and we’d talk about how this was it, we did it, we found each other before forty.